Regardless of the strange kiss we had, that night was the night that cemented out relationship on its own personal pedestal. In my eyes it was like no other; it lorded over all other ‘real’ relationships offering itself as a shining example of how relationships should be but never are. It was completely surreal and every new second was as exciting as the first.
We spent weeks in this bliss that seemed to be infinite. Ben grew more charming and romantic each time I was with him. He was affectionate and sweet and caring and he didn’t seem to have many friends, which meant that he spent most of his free time with me.
I noticed myself searching for some flaw of his, something that wasn’t perfect but as soon as he’d kiss me or glance over at me I’d forget what I was searching for. It was as though he was perfection, no flaws, no negative aspects just pure ‘fairytale prince’ perfection. Deep down I knew that it was impossible; I believed that perfection doesn’t exist in anything, but Ben dumbfounded me because he seemed to prove me wrong.
At least I thought he did.
Around two months into the relationship, I finally experienced his flaw. Luckily enough for him, I was naïve and having already accepted him as perfect, I couldn’t see any other side of him clearly. What should have been a warning sign - I dismissed, layering on the excuses and convincing even myself what he did wasn’t so wrong.
He’d shown up at the flat, hours earlier than I was expecting, with a suitcase and two gym bags holstered over his shoulder. When I opened up the door to him he wouldn’t look me in the eyes, he wouldn’t look up from the floor. He shoved his way past me, throwing his bags down heavily on the floor before locking himself in the kitchen.
Anger should have been what I felt as he started to rip my kitchen a part. As he threw my plates and glasses at the walls and floor I started to wonder whether there were things in there that I didn’t want broken. Sure, I didn’t want anything of mine to be so ruthlessly trashed, but none of that mattered if there was something in there that meant something to me.
“Ben,” I yelled as I slammed my hands on the door, “Ben, please open the door.”
I started rummaging around the bowl at the side of the front door searching for something I could use to turn the lock. I grabbed a small Phillips screwdriver and ran back to the kitchen door. The back of the kitchen lock was shaped like the head of a screw, circular with an opening running directly through. I strategically placed the head of the screwdriver in the small opening; it was a perfect fit. I carefully turned it anti-clockwise until I heard the light click that indicated the door was now unlocked.
Ben was so absorbed by his rage that he hadn’t heard or noticed my entrance into the room. My mouth was open, ready to say something calming or reassuring when I recognised something on the floor. In the midst of all the broken dishes and glasses I didn’t care much for, was a mug. Broken perfectly into three pieces it sat among the wreckage like any other meaningless piece of ceramic.
But this was no meaningless mug; this was the one thing my mind had been searching for minutes earlier, subconsciously worried about, but unable to remember in the chaos of the moment. My Grandmothers mug, her favourite mug that she used every single day including the day that she died. The mug that featured in all of my childhood memories, the only mug she’d ever drink tea out of - and she drank a lot of tea.
There it lay on my kitchen floor, my last link with my Grandmother, broken. I picked up the three pieces off of the floor and held them loosely in my hand. I should have been angry but nothing could overcome the sadness I was feeling.
“Ben, please.” I spoke softly and reached out to him with my free hand. Surprised by my presence he swung around at me, he hands balled up in fists. He was moving too fast to stop himself as his flailing arms struck my face and threw me to the floor.
He was frozen when I looked up at him. His hands still shook from the rage, and his face a bright crimson. He looked at me now, no longer avoiding eye contact. They faltered suddenly as he glanced down at my arm. My eyes followed his, down to the floor where my arm lay. I had been holding the broken mug in that hand and as my arm leaked blood I knew that at some point between standing and lying, I had managed to accidentally cut a perfectly straight hole in my arm.
My cheekbone began to throb in pain, I was sure that there must have been a bruise forming already. I had never been hit before so I had no other pain to compare this with, but I was sure by any standards that I had been hit harder than anyone ever should.
When he finally unfroze, Ben rushed into the bathroom to get the first aid kit. He didn’t breathe a single word as he ran between me and the bathroom and back again, making sure he had everything he was going to need to fix this, to fix me. He was so careful as he tended to my wound, holding my arm up in his as he gently wiped away the excess blood. He didn’t need to tell me he was sorry or how much he regretted hurting me because I felt it, I could see the pain it caused him without even looking into his eyes.
“It’s okay,” I said placing my free hand on his face, “it was just an accident.”
He avoided me again now, ashamed of what he’d done; afraid of looking at my face and seeing the mark he’d left. My cheekbone was tender and starting to swell, I could feel it with each tiny movement of my mouth and my eyes. When he finished tending to my arm he cradled me in his arms and took me into the living room. He still wouldn’t look at me as he placed me down on the sofa, he simply turned, and walked away with his head bowed.
I tried resting my eyes that now stung from the tears I caged, not wanting to make Ben feel any worse then he already did. In the kitchen he was sweeping away all of the broken ceramic and glass off of the floor. The tiny pieces scraped along the tiled floor with each sweep of the brush; the sound irritating my ears, then it clattered loudly as he deposited it into the bin.
It was silent for a while and I had considered getting up and making sure that everything was okay. I was worried about him now, worried about him tearing himself a part over this, worried about him blaming himself. I sat up on the sofa and as I did so I heard Ben moving out of the kitchen, I assumed he’d be coming straight into the living room so I lay back down.
He did something in the hallway for a moment then the keys clattered in the bowl as Ben picked them up and then left, closing the door quietly behind him, maybe he thinks I’m sleeping. On my mobile I searched for him in my contacts and hit dial, it rang and rang until the answer phone interrupted. I ended the call and tried again but he wouldn’t answer.
Shaking off my fatigue I hurried into the kitchen, curious as to what had kept him in there for so long, maybe there’d be some indication as to where he had gone. It was near spotless. He tidied away all of the chaos he had created but some of it could not be hidden. The cupboard door that had been hanging off its hinges was back in its place, but the dent, which cratered its white face, could not be disguised. Nor could the one on the door of the fridge.
Turning to leave the kitchen I noticed something that had been pushed behind the biscuit jar. When I moved the jar out of the way I could see that my Grandmothers mug had been mended. Beside it sat the small, and now near empty, pot of superglue. That’s what he was doing. A whole range of things had gone through my mind while he was in his silent solitude, but I’d have never had imagined he was doing that.
At that moment, as I picked up my mended mug, a key turned in the door. I stood in the kitchen doorway knowing I’d be the first thing he’d see when he opened the door. Shopping bags filled his hands; their plastic handles stretching from the weight they held. He looked me in the eyes, smiled weakly, and shrugged. I didn’t want him to speak or apologise or even have regretful thoughts. I placed the mug down on the side and after taking the bags out of his hands and putting them down on the floor; I laced my arms around him and he pulled me in tightly.
We stood like that, by the front door, for what felt like forever. My hands had started getting cold from the draft that made its way through the small opening at the bottom of the door. Even so, I didn’t want to move from the very spot in which we were now stood, I didn’t want this moment or this feeling to have to end.
The warmth from his body was keeping my warm now, he was always warm even on the coldest of days, and now his warmth was soothing me, calming me. Having him hold me in his arms like that made me sure that I had been right all along. It was all just a stupid accident and no one was really to blame.
It took a few days to establish what exactly had been the cause of Ben’s rage. He’d been reluctant to talk about it at first, still feeling ashamed of the way he had behaved and what that had led to. Every time he looked at me now his eyes fixated on by cheekbone bruise, and his thumb would often graze over it lightly as he monitored the swelling.
“I had a disagreement with the guy I was living with,” he eventually told me. “He kicked me out for good, so I’m officially homeless.”
I had immediately offered for him to move in with me, happy to have some consistent company. He told me that he didn’t want to intrude and he wasn’t looking for an invitation but I knew that already. I insisted and so he happily obliged.
“That guy was my link with work,” he’d added a little later, embarrassed by his shortcomings. “After the bust up we had, I lost my job as well.”
A part of me could understand why Ben had been so ill tempered that day when he showed up at my door. Loosing your home was enough but loosing your job as well - that was too much. If it hadn’t been for me Ben really would have been homeless and living on the streets.
I took comfort in the fact I could be there for him when he needed me most. It made me feel important having someone who relied on me to look out for them. I imagined that it’s similar to how a mother feels over her child, protective and as though her life has new meaning to it. My life had certainly gained more meaning; I had Ben to care for, to reassure, to look after, to love - and what could be more important than that?
